


Against the Wall

by shiion (caswell)



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Eye Trauma, Gore, Guro, Literally just 3.3k words of gore, all kinds of trauma really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9440009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caswell/pseuds/shiion
Summary: Yata should've expected him to be capable of that much violence, really.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the worst thing I've ever written. This isn't meant to be shippy sans the mentions of previous fucking but uh, take it whatever way you want.  
> Also what the fuck are summaries.

 

Blood spattered against the concrete as Yata fell to the ground, breath knocked out of him. He coughed, hacking more blood onto the rough grey surface, then looked up at his attacker. “You really- don't know when to stop- do you?” he managed to ask. His knuckles scraped and bled as he curled his hands into fists, but before he could say anything more, the point of a sword was pressed to his throat. He hardly registered the silver blade, only its momentary shine as Saruhiko whipped it out of its sheath.

“You wouldn't be in this position if you'd just fought back,” Saruhiko said, sweet-tasting venom in his tone as he pushed up his glasses. “What ever happened to killing me someday?” With a coolly controlled twist of his wrist, he flipped the sword and dragged the sharp edge against the underside of Yata’s chin.

Yata flinched, feeling blood trickle from the narrow cut.  _ Well, he could've done much worse.  _  “I was a kid. I didn't mean it.” He spoke with clenched teeth, trying not to move his jaw so as to not make the cut deeper. “Is that what this is? Trying to get back at me for something I said when I was sixteen?” It felt pathetic- him, kneeling on the ground, staring death in the face under the guise of his old best friend. He'd been on his knees for Saruhiko before, and the stark contrast made him shudder- what a difference two years makes. 

The tip of the sword poked at his throat again as Saruhiko bent down to eye level with Yata, making him feel even more vulnerable. There was another glint of light off metal as Saruhiko let a knife fall into his hand, and Yata swallowed tensely as he brought it to his throat and moved the sword down to press against his stomach. It was only at that point that reality settled in for him-  _ Holy shit, he really could hurt me, he could  _ kill  _ me right now. _

Saruhiko drew the knife across Yata's throat, drawing small beads of blood to the surface. There was a thoughtful look in his eyes as he pressed down, as if he was trying to tell just how deep he could push before he sliced it beyond repair; when he did it again, going over the first cut, Yata could feel the blade come dangerously close to his jugular. There was blood dripping down his throat now, trickling towards the white fabric of his shirt and staining it a sick crimson. After a few seconds of quiet contemplation, Saruhiko dug the tip of his knife into the skin of Yata's throat and ordered, “Lean back.” Intimidated, Yata obeyed, leaving his torso exposed for whatever sick plans Saruhiko had.

There was a sound of ripping fabric as Saruhiko shoved his knife through the cloth of Yata's shirt and dragged it down, opening a slit in the front to show his bare skin. His eyes didn't show any arousal, that burning look that Yata knew intimately; instead, they were focused and chilling, as if sizing him up. With a sinking feeling, it dawned on him what Saruhiko was going to do with those blades. Yet still, he felt powerless to run, even though he wasn't pinned.

The first cut was light, exploratory. It hardly broke the skin as Saruhiko pulled the knife in a straight line from Yata's clavicle to his navel. Yata was breathing shallower now, petrified, unable to speak. Pitiful. The next movement of Saruhiko's knife dug deeper into the red line, and Yata gave a small gasp despite himself, flinching as the flesh of his chest pressed into the blade. It was then that Saruhiko gripped the knife tight in one delicate hand, and Yata, terrified, braced himself for what was to come next.

Saruhiko slashed down Yata's torso, lips twisted into a bizarre grin as blood splattered around the gash, and Yata gave out a strained cry as the pain finally set in. It felt as if Fushimi had drawn a straight line of fire in his body; his heart pounded as he tried to grip the ground with little success. The pain only escalated when Saruhiko carved out the edges of the wound, raising up skin and bleeding flesh with his knife. 

With countless scrapes of the blade, Saruhiko pulled up layers of muscle and fat and skin, every movement making Yata give pained gasps. Stinging tears made streaks on his face as he gasped for air. _ How the fuck am I not in shock yet? What the hell is going on?  _ He made a move to bite down on one fist, trying to focus on anything else but the indescribable pain of the cut- more like a hole at this point- but when he raised his hand, Saruhiko slipped another knife from his sleeve. Not taking his eyes off of his 'work’, he stabbed through the palm of Yata's hand straight through the flesh and bone, and Yata's scream was bloodcurdling. He lifted his limp, useless hand, then shook it, and numbly watched the knife dislodge itself and fall to the concrete with a  _ clink. _

“Focus  _ only  _ on me,” Saruhiko said pointedly, but it wasn't the chilly tone he'd had before- no, to Yata's dismay, there was a flame catching in it, a sick, twisted spark of passion that frightened him to the core. “Or I'll have to get rid of it altogether.” Yata's stomach flipped at the thought. Hesitantly, not wanting to anger Saruhiko more, he looked down at himself and nearly fainted in shock. More than just his muscle was laid out in the open now- Saruhiko had dug all the way down to his guts like he was a frog in a high school science lab. He could see the blood flow through his arteries as his heart beat, quick like a rabbit’s, and it made his head swim as it tried to comprehend the reality of the situation. Saruhiko reached inside to grab whatever tissue he could get ahold of, and, instincts kicking in, Yata reached out to grab his wrist before he could essentially seal his fate. He realized his mistake almost immediately as Saruhiko looked up to lock eyes with him. 

“Oh, God,” he whimpered.  _ My arms. My arms, oh god-  _

Irreverently, Saruhiko forced Yata's sleeve up to his shoulder and pressed his knife just below the hem. “I warned you,” he said lowly. It burned, it  _ burned  _ as he began to saw into the flesh of Yata's arm. Blood gushed from the cut as he worked his way closer and closer to the bone. It was agonizing, both the pain and the waiting, the knowledge that he was most certainly going to die here, cut up and dismembered. Saruhiko began to move faster, and Yata nearly passed out- probably for good- but he was being roped into consciousness by the sharp pain.

“When can… when can I die?” he breathed, barely getting his words out before turning his head and coughing up scarlet blood. “When will you  _ end  _ this?” How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? Days, months, years? The moments blurred together, fogged by bright red pain. 

“I won't let you give up so easy,” Saruhiko answered, words slow and purposeful. “I've always wanted to see how you work. You seemed so simple, but I guess you're more complex than I thought.” He turned the knife, giving Yata a view of the layers of tissue in his arm. “Epidermis, dermis, hypodermis. And under that, your muscles, and then…” There was a  _ crack  _ as the knife hit hard white. “Bone.” He sawed at it, calcified tissue splitting in crude fragments around the blade. It was too dull, too dull, too dull, it took so  _ long _ , why couldn't it be over- but finally, it snapped completely, leaving Yata's arm connected only by a thin swath of muscle and skin. It fell awkwardly to one side, and Yata gagged, looking away with a grimace. He felt a hand tightly grab his face, and opened his eyes again to see Saruhiko staring at him intently.  _ “ _ Focus,” he commanded. “You're going to look at what I'm doing to you!” 

Saruhiko twisted Yata's head to be pointed towards his arm before standing up. He placed a foot on Yata's chest, a space where the skin was still undamaged, and pulled the arm with all his might. With a sickeningly wet ripping sound, the arm was torn completely off, spurting blood onto the stained concrete beneath him. Yata screamed again, shouting through tears that spilled from his eyes uncontrollably. He still  _ felt  _ it, still felt his arm, but there it was, tossed like an empty soda bottle to the side, just laying on the ground. Yata's head spun, and he tried to look up at Saruhiko, but he could hardly focus his eyes. “Why are you  _ doing  _ this?” he whimpered. A rusty taste flooded his mouth as he spoke, and he swallowed the blood that had risen in his throat. “Please, just kill me already!”

Saruhiko didn't respond; instead, he knelt down by Yata's side again and looked over his body for a moment. With a decisive smirk, he stuck the knife into the flesh below his sternum. “You've always had so much heart,” he said, “so why don't we take a look at it,  _ Misaki?”  _ With a grunt, he shoved the blade up into the bone, sawing it like he'd done to Yata's humerus. Again, the brutal cracking noises echoed in Yata's ears as the white tissue fractured beneath the blade. The knife was dripping with blood now, and it rubbed off on the bone so that his ravaged chest was a grotesque painting of red and white and tan.

For the next few minutes, Yata drifted in and out of consciousness, but he was jolted into total awareness as Saruhiko gripped the edges of his ribs, having finally cut through the entirety of his sternum. There was a hideous snap as he pulled his ribs to either side, first unhinged and then completely off, sharp fragments sticking curved into the air. Exposed to the elements were Yata's heaving lungs, and, in between them, his heart. Yata gagged again at the sight, but Saruhiko seemed to relish it, looking at the pounding heart with a smile.

“Now, what can I do to see that beat a little quicker?” he mused, looking at his knife with half-lidded eyes. “Well, we haven't worked any on that face of yours…” Like an obedient dog, Yata's heart began to rush even more, and Saruhiko looked down at it with a look that mixed fondness with sadism. Raising his eyes to Yata's face once again, he placed the blade of the knife against Yata's cheekbone. He tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes, assessing and calculating. Then, before Yata could react, he touched the tip of his bloodied knife to one eyeball. “Let's start here, shall we, Misaki?”

“Oh  _ god _ ,” Yata whined, “oh  _ please  _ dont-” But he knew that pleading was futile; Saruhiko had already made up his mind. It only seemed to motivate him, and the smile that he saw for only a split second shook him to his core. Clear liquid oozed from Yata's eyeball as Saruhiko cut into it with small swoops of his knife, and panic seized his ruined chest when half his vision turned black, only sensing the sharp pain that came with every slash. 

After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only half a minute, there was a brief, merciful pause in the torture, and Yata's breathing gradually slowed. But, from the corner of his non-mutilated eye, he saw Saruhiko lean in again and stiffened in terror. With surgical precision, he slipped the knife under Yata's eyeball and pulled up, severing the nerves connecting it to his brain. Yata screeched, almost choking on blood and wincing from the rawness of his strained vocal cords rubbing together. He sat there panting for a few moments before he looked up with his one good eye and started in shocked disgust. Saruhiko had dangled his tattered, severed eye in front of him, holding onto it by a small mess of optic nerves. Yata nearly reached up to inspect his empty eye socket, but the memory of what had been done to him the last time he moved his hand stopped him in his tracks.

A look of boredom crossed Saruhiko's face when Yata finally calmed down and averted his eye away from the gore. He flicked the ruined eyeball to the side, where it rolled bumpily across the concrete and came to a stop against Yata's discarded arm. Saruhiko peered down at Yata, observing his sweet, sick decimation, then looked at his face again, not making eye contact but instead focusing on his mouth. Yata, barely hanging on to consciousness, was unaware of anything until Saruhiko swiftly let another silver blade fall into his free hand and stabbed the palm of Yata's one remaining hand. His eye shot open again, and, as he opened his mouth to scream in agony- he could hardly make any more sound, though; his vocal cords were shot- he felt Saruhiko take hold of his tongue. It was slick with saliva and traces of coughed-up blood, but he managed to hold it in a steady grip. Roughly, he yanked Yata's head forward and placed the knife under his tongue, blade against the fold of membrane connecting it to the floor of his mouth. Blood rushed into Yata's mouth as Saruhiko cut upward at an angle, slicing through the muscle of his tongue. Yata gagged and choked, trying to get rid of it, but all he ended up doing was adding to the bloodstains on Saruhiko's pale skin. He was almost scared he'd suffocate and die- though maybe that would be a good thing- but when Saruhiko pulled his tongue completely out, he twisted Yata's head to the side again and let him spit up the blood in a miserable pool. He was too tired to think, too tired to breathe- was he passing out for real now? Would he finally be able to get some rest, let Saruhiko kill him when he was unconscious and never have to deal with this pain again? 

His wishful thinking was cut short when he felt a sharp pinch. He turned his head to see Saruhiko leaning over him, poking a needle full of some clear fluid into him- it must have been concealed with his knives. Nothing happened immediately when he pushed down the plunger, but in a few minutes, he felt  _ something  _ course through him, something that jump-started his heart and pulled him from the brink. Yata attempted to say “What the fuck did you do?”, but with his tongue sliced out, it came out nearly incomprehensible.

Always the intellectual, though, Saruhiko seemed to understand. “Adrenaline shot,” he explained, setting the now-empty needle aside. “I want you to be awake for this.” With an iron grip surprising for his slender hands, he gripped a handful of Yata's hair and forced him to look down. His heart was beating furiously in his open chest, and he realized he was shaking a bit.  _ Awake for what?  _ he wondered.

His internal question was answered almost immediately. His legs, which had gone untouched this entire time, suddenly burst into fiery pain; when he raised his gaze to look away from his chest, he noticed that Saruhiko had stuck all his knives into them, having emptied his sleeves. Blood seeped from the weeping stab wounds, trickling down onto the grey ground beneath. “What are you going to do…?” Again, it was nigh indecipherable. 

“I'm running out of ideas,” Saruhiko admitted. “There's not too much left of you that hasn't been ruined. Look at yourself.” It was true- he laid there pitifully, propped up on the only arm he had, half-blinded, unable to speak, partially vivisected and now hopped up on synthetic adrenaline. “You cook, Misaki- you must know about slicing and dicing.” As he hissed out the last word, he grabbed hold of the nearest knife and pulled it down through the muscle of Yata's calf. The blood that had been dripping down his skin spattered onto the ground in crude sanguine splashes with a nauseating  _ splat.  _ Yata was disgusted, but it must have been music to Saruhiko's ears, because the look on his face was delighted, almost  _ blissful.  _ His expression only grew happier, more manic, when he cut through more and more muscle, wetting the concrete with Yata's blood. The knives shredded through his legs, leaving them battered and torn. 

Silent tears streamed down Yata's face as he watched numbly.  _ I can't do this anymore. I quit.  _ His body was destroyed, guts falling out and piling in his lap- there was no hope. He couldn't survive this. Saruhiko was about halfway up Yata's leg, cutting deep gashes to the bone, when he heard him sniffling. Proudly, he looked up to admire the wretched emotions on Yata's face, the tears he'd provoked dripping from his chin onto his clavicle. “Does it hurt too much, Misaki?” he asked, a fake tone of sympathy in his voice. “You want me to put you out of your misery?”

Even though he doubted Saruhiko would follow through with anything, Yata nodded slowly, having given up on acting tough long ago. He was shaking and bawling now; everything had caught up to him, not just the slicing of his legs into tatters but every single thing Saruhiko had done to him for perverse pleasure. The quick, visible rise and fall of his lungs was sickening, and Saruhiko reveled in it for a long moment before responding. “Your heart only beats when you're living, Misaki. Why would I give that up?” He shook his head. “You never understand me, after all.” 

Yata swallowed back a sob and whimpered, “Please, just fucking kill me already!”

Saruhiko looked up to his face, then back at his chest, at his heart. He twiddled a knife in one hand, flipping and twirling it with his fingers, as he contemplated Yata's pleading. “Will you beg for me? ...Maybe I shouldn't have cut your tongue out after all.”

Trying to enunciate as well as possible, working around his bloodied stump of a tongue, Yata obeyed.  _ “Please,  _ God, Saruhiko,” he whined, “there’s nothing else to do, just kill me…” 

Saruhiko planted a foot square on Yata's torn torso, pressing and twisting his boot among the blood and muscle and organs. Yata coughed roughly, then spat more blood onto the ground. “If I'm going to kill you, I'm going to take a souvenir,” Saruhiko said, bending over to put his face closer to Yata's. “I don't get many visitors. I could put it in a jar and nobody would notice.”

Yata trembled. “... Put  _ what _ in a jar?”

Taking his foot out of Yata's guts, Saruhiko knelt down next to him and grabbed one of the knives from Yata's legs. He was surprisingly delicate as, to Yata’s dismay, he slipped the blade under his heart. “Do you want an anatomy lesson?” he asked, though Yata knew he wasn't expecting an answer. He held his breath as Saruhiko moved the knife, making small, deliberate movements. “The aorta.” He brought his knife up and cut through three tubes at the top of his heart. “Pulmonary artery and veins.” He severed the vessels on the sides of the organ, which was now gushing blood, wetting his hands and knife. “Venae cavae!” Blood splattered onto his face as he pulled the heart from Yata's chest, clutching it in his hand and gazing down at it, enraptured by the gore and the soft, carefully preserved muscle.

Yata’s whimpering had quieted down, and Saruhiko broke his eyes away to look down at his lifeless body. His lungs had fallen still; nothing was moving besides the last of the blood that was leaking from the blood vessels that had been cut. As an afterthought, he kicked his jaw hard, one final injury to his useless body. A smirk contorted his face as he murmured, “Well, Misaki, looks like I've finally won your heart.”


End file.
